But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.

For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?

Absence - that common cure of love.

Her great merit is finding out mine; there is nothing so amiable as discernment.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.